


i'd spend all night losing sleep

by swearwollf



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Play, Consensual Somnophilia, Established Relationship, M/M, Nebulously Post-TFTBL AU, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Somnophilia, surprisingly tender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 17:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21377647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swearwollf/pseuds/swearwollf
Summary: Jack has his way with a sleeping Rhys.
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 185





	i'd spend all night losing sleep

**Author's Note:**

> thanks go to ghost for the beta and sel for the encouragement and also the summary

Rhys looks vulnerable in sleep, delicate, especially with his bionic arm put away in its charging station. Lying on his side in one of Jack’s too-big sweaters and mismatched socks, long limbs loose and easy and his one hand in an open curl below his chin. His eyelashes lay like wings on his cheeks. The very picture of restfulness. 

The bedroom is warm, almost hot, allowing Rhys to sleep comfortably above the covers. Jack stands at the bed and watches him for what feels like a long time, matches his breaths to the slow in and out of Rhys’s own. He catalogues every detail he can with his analytical mind, wishing he was the artistic type, to somehow capture this moment for himself forever on canvas or something. But maybe not, he’d probably do something absurd like eat it so no one else could ever see it.

Because _ god _, does he want to eat Rhys up right now.

Approaching the bed, Jack takes one of Rhys’s feet, his hand looking huge around Rhys’s ankle. Feathering his thumb into the arch, he watches Rhys for a reaction. Something that would normally lead to at least and involuntary kick and yell gets barely a twitch, just a flexing of the toes in their warm sock. Rhys continues to breathe deep and slow, unaffected.

Jack gently sets the limb back on the bed then follows the line of Rhys’s calf with a hand coarse with gun calluses. He watches the fine hairs rise in his hand’s wake with great attention. He caresses the delicate skin on the inside of the knee, another ticklish spot, then continues up the thigh where the hem of his sweater hides more skin. Curves his touch in where Rhys’s thighs meet under the sweater, warm and soft, weighted with sleep. 

Rhys sighs and presses his face further into the pillow.

He had ditched the jacket on the couch when he got home, but he finds that he’s still wearing way too many clothes. He doesn’t want to stop touching Rhys’s skin but he does, pulling away just long enough to struggle gracelessly out of his remaining layers, dropping everything in a heap on the ground beside the bed for him to trip over later. Once he’s done, he eases himself onto the bed with Rhys, careful not to jostle him.

Carefully snugging himself up to Rhys’s back, Jack pauses and waits. Rhys stirs but only slightly, sighing again and pressing himself back into Jack before he stills back into the looseness of sleep. Jack secrets a kiss into the nape of Rhys’s neck as a reward, stroking gently down his side over the sweater, feeling the vague shape of his ribs through the fabric.

Becoming braver when Rhys still doesn’t wake, Jack skates his his hand up and under the fabric to pet Rhys’s belly. It’s plush from Jack’s cooking and Rhys’s desk job and something about it triggers an animal satisfaction in Jack so he digs his fingertips in, just a little, not hard enough to bruise but enough to feel the flesh there yield to the pressure of his touch.

A frantic intensity overcomes him then, but he reigns it in with an iron grip. Not even Jack would say he has much in the way of restraint, but he can’t allow himself to rush this. He makes himself breathe slow, match himself to Rhys again. Steadily he finds his bearing by Rhys’s true north.

Jack bites slow wet kisses to the back of Rhys’s neck and the parts of his shoulders left vulnerable by the gaping neckline of his sweater. Emboldened by Rhys’s lack of response, he sucks a bruise at the juncture of neck and shoulder, chases the new lividity with his teeth until they leave a mark that will last for days. Rhys only hums faintly, a noise Jack has heard from a sleeping Rhys before so he’s not alarmed.

But the sound does make him feel ravenous. Almost unmoored. Jack carefully guides Rhys onto his belly, stealing a pillow from the head of the bed to prop Rhys’s hips up. He checks to make sure Rhys won’t smother himself in his pillow and his arm isn’t stuck under him before sitting back and admiring Rhys again. His graceful repose is now an inelegant sprawl, transformed from innocent to obscene by the slope of back, the swell of his ass apparent even hidden by the sweater. The purpling suck-bruise Jack left is visible as well, evidence that he belongs to Jack and Jack alone. It is a deeply satisfying sight to behold, and Jack feels his face stretch with his vicious, triumphant grin.

Jack positions himself between Rhys’s spread thighs, smoothing his hands up their length until he meets the hem of his sweater. Then, carefully, he pushes the sweater aside without taking his hands off Rhys, allowing himself to savor the view of his ass as it appears slowly before him. Pale and round as a peach begging to be bitten into. Jack was never one to resist begging, not when it came to Rhys.

He pushes the sweater up the bow of Rhys’s back, rucking it up and out of the way around his ribs. Then he leans down, scrapes his teeth over the swell of that perfect ass to leave another red mark while caressing the silky skin on the insides of Rhys’s thighs. Another quiet hum is all that comes of it. Jack presses the curve of his smile into one cheek.

Lying down in the welcoming V of Rhys’s thighs, Jack knows exactly what he wants. He takes the globe of each ass cheek and pries Rhys open, watches the careless flutter of Rhys’s hole greedily, breathes in the smell of Rhys’s expensive shower gel, and dives right in. Rhys is still mostly loose from the sex they had that morning, easy to curl tongue into, but Jack lets himself lave over the hole like it was still tight, like he still has to tease it open. 

He doesn’t feel like he’s close enough, like he can ever be close enough. He still wants to carve a place for himself inside of Rhys, some days, wants to crawl into him and curl up beneath his heart. It had taken no time at all to build him a new body after their return to Helios, but Jack still craves the… intimacy of living in Rhys’s head. But he can’t live in Rhys and have him still be Rhys, so he makes do with this.

Propping himself up on his elbows, Jack unclips the mask from his face. The scar had come back when he was in this new body, despite not being there when he was installed. He still hates it, but he needs to feel Rhys everywhere he can. Besides, Rhys never seemed to mind the scar. Jack tosses the mask off the side of the bed to join his clothes on the floor.

Jack eats Rhys out at his leisure, presses himself as close as he can to feel skin on skin, squeezing and groping Rhys’s ass while he’s at it. He finds himself making hungry noises, growling and slurping into Rhys’s yielding body until Rhys’s hips start to twitch restlessly and he hums on every other breath. Until Rhys’s hole is red and swollen with attention and Jack is so hard he almost hurts.

Using the corner of the sheet to wipe the spit from his face, Jack sits up and surveys his handiwork. Rhys is probably wet enough with saliva that he doesn’t need it, but Jack wants to make a mess. He crawls up Rhys’s body to the lube sitting waiting for him on the nightstand, then comes back to sit on his heels between Rhys’s legs. Popping the cap, he drips the lube down and watches it dribble into Rhys’s hole, down his perineum and over his balls. Some of it also rolls down the curve of his back, trickling just far enough to wet the hem of the sweater. They’ll have to throw it in the wash later, it’s their favorite.

Satisfied, Jack drops the bottle on the bed and crawls over Rhys, pressing Rhys’s thighs together and straddling him. Leaning back to watch avariciously, Jack holds Rhys open and guides himself in with a groan.

Rhys’s body welcomes him easily, warmth enveloping him, and Jack is certain Rhys is warmer in his sleep, almost hot. He thrusts in slow, luxuriating in the sight of his dick disappearing into Rhys’s pliant hole, in the _ feel _ of Rhys’s grip on him. Rhys is still making quiet little hums, but Jack is secure now in the knowledge he won’t wake up. His hips are still shifting, though, helpless little movements back into Jack’s slow thrusts, and his hand flexes, kitten-like, on the bed beside his head.

The praise spills from Jack unwittingly, a litany of “that’s it, good boy”s and “god, you take it so well, Rhysie”s as Jack quickens his pace. Rhys’s sleepy little hums of appreciation drive him onward and Jack can see his eyes twitching under his eyelids, color high on his cheeks and mouth slack and open with pleasure even in his sleep.

Jack needs to be closer again. He falls forward over Rhys, pressing him down into the mattress with his body, rolling his hips to get the friction he needs without putting space between them. But it isn’t enough, so he rolls Rhys onto his right side so there’s no arm to trap under him. Jack curls one arm under Rhys’s body and around his middle to keep him in place against Jack’s chest. Then with his free hand he takes Rhys’s hip in a bruising grip and pulls Rhys back onto his dick in a relentless pace. His sweaty hair flops over his forehead and into his eyes, but he ignores it.

Rhys’s hums have become high and breathy now, a continuous noise to spur Jack towards orgasm. Jack, for his part, is still growling nonsense praise into Rhys’s ear, not that he can hear it. WIth the one hand still on Rhys’s hip, Jack skates the other down Rhys’s body until he finds his neglected cock. As soon as he wraps his hand around it Rhys is coming with a hiccuping sigh, spilling over Jack’s hand as his body tenses and his toes curl before going slack all over again. He still doesn’t wake up.

Jack curses viciously when he feels Rhys tighten deliciously around him but doesn’t let up his pace, still chasing his own orgasm. It doesn’t take long, he keeps pulling Rhys back roughly by the hip until he finds it, shuddering through him like gunfire. He bites another bruise into Rhys’s shoulder to muffle his yell, thrusting into Rhys slowly through the aftershocks until he can’t stand to move anymore. 

Then he lies there and catches his breath, stays spooned as tightly to Rhys as he can to keep his softening cock inside him as long as he can. Presses tender kisses to the bite he left when he came. Jack thinks he should get out of bed, clean Rhys up, but he knows the mess is half the fun. He knows Rhys will love the evidence of what Jack did to him just as much as he hates the itchy aftermath.

Curled together like a quotation mark, Jack follows Rhys into sleep.

—

Rhys claws his way to consciousness slowly, mind and body made heavy and unwilling from the drug provided by R&D. A sedative-slash-sleep-aid commissioned by Handsome Jack himself to suit his purposes, tested heavily before it made its way into Jack’s hands and then Rhys’s. The drug is, technically, supposed to be used by Jack to combat his insomnia but he wasn’t above sharing with Rhys for this particular scene.

And what a scene it must have been. Rhys catalogues the little aches and pains that pepper his body. Feels the tingling of stubble burn between his thighs and ass cheeks. The faint raw feeling of his ass itself. His muscles are tired and noodly as well. He feels like a dish towel that’s been wrung out and left to dry. Who knew being fucked without even participating could be so strenuous.

Rolling on his back, Rhys trails a hand through the itchy remains of cum on his stomach and smiles, both pleased and disgusted by the wreck of his body. The flakey remnants of lube cake his lower back and the insides of his thighs. He feels well and truly filthy.

After a moment of reveling in the ruin of his body, Rhys rolls himself to the edge of the bed and stands on shaking legs. As he becomes vertical he could swear he feels something trickle down the back of his thigh. When he reaches back to check, his fingers comes away wet, making him shiver all over in delight.

Rhys doesn’t bother getting his arm down from the charging station, instead heading straight for the full length mirror in the bathroom to inspect the damage. And he does look truly debauched, his hair a wild mess, sweater askew on one shoulder revealing an array of bruises and bitemarks. He prods one gently to feel the bruise complain before reaching down and pulling the sweater over his head.

And _ oh, _the bruises that this reveals. Rhys can map the grasp of Jack’s big hands on his hips, traces the marks with his own fingertips before pressing down with a full-body shudder and a quiet gasp. He can’t spend too much time on them or he’s going to need help with his hard-on, and he wants to take a shower and see Jack first.

Stripping his socks, Rhys steps into the shower and makes quick work of cleaning himself up. He towels himself dry but doesn’t bother blow drying his hair, instead opting to steal Jack’s robe and go hunting for the man himself.

Jack is easy enough to find. He’s standing in the kitchen in a t-shirt and sweats, spatula in hand as he sings along (poorly) to the song playing over the sound system. Rhys sidles up behind him until he can wrap his arms around Jack’s waist and dip his face into the space between his shoulder blades. Setting the spatula aside, Jack turns in the ring of his arms and pulls Rhys into a slow, languorous kiss. Jack isn’t wearing his mask and his stubble burns Rhys’s face, still tender from the heat of the shower.

Pulling back with a grin, Jack presses a thumb to one of the bruises he knows is hidden under the robe. Rhys may or may not whine high in his throat at the sensation.

“Sleep well, pumpkin?” Jack asks, looking above even his usual levels of smug.

Leaning in for another kiss, Rhys purrs, “Never better.”

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: Removed rick roll from fic.
> 
> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8iuo31_GsuM) is the song Jack is actually singing.


End file.
